An excerpt from Voices of Our Sisters
by Kathy Manis Findley

Sarah began to notice the son that Hagar, the Egyptian, had borne to Abraham, and she said to Abraham, "Get rid of that slave woman and her son, for that boy will never share the inheritance with my son Isaac." Abraham was greatly distressed . . .

Early the next morning, Abraham took some food and a skin of water and gave them to Hagar. Then he sent her off with his son, and she wandered in the desert of Beersheba. When the water was gone, Hagar put the child under a bush. Then she went off and sat down nearby, for she thought, "I cannot watch the boy die." And she began to sob.

God heard the boy crying, and the angel of God called to Hagar from heaven and said to her, "What is the matter, Hagar? Do not be afraid. God has heard the boy crying. Pick the boy up and take him by the hand, for I will make of him a great nation."

Then God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water. She filled the skin with water and gave the boy a drink. And God was with the boy as he grew up.

(Gen 21:1-21)

God Hears in the Wilderness
In wilderness places one experiences both the presence and the absence of God. When we find ourselves in the wilderness for any time at all, we quickly learn that others are there, too. Most are afraid. Many are in despair. A few are frozen, immobilized, paralyzed–unable to move, much less able to get themselves back on the journey of getting to a better place. No matter what makes your place a wilderness, wilderness places can be lonely. The Genesis story describes such a lonely wilderness place, the place where Hagar and her son were sent.

Unable to have children, Sarah planned to allow her servant, Hagar, to have Abraham's child. Abraham agreed. This caused trouble in the household, and Sarah dealt harshly with Hagar.

What an unusual story. We don't do those kinds of things much these days. We seldom keep servants we can order around, use, or abuse. I certainly do not understand all that happened in this story, but I do understand that in the wilderness, God does hear.

The story is rich in contrasts–all the way from laughter and celebration to weeping and desolation. Sarah said, "God has brought laughter for me; everyone who hears [that I have borne a son to my 100-year-old husband] will laugh with me." Abraham held a grand celebration, a sumptuous feast on the day Sarah's boy was weaned.

But Sarah didn't laugh and celebrate for very long! "Cast out this slave woman with her son," she demanded, "for this slave woman shall not inherit along with my son Isaac."

Hagar was nameless and voiceless while Abraham and Sarah plotted her future. Sarah would not even utter her name. She called Hagar "the slave woman." And the story of celebration and laughter changed to a story of weeping and desolation. Abraham sent Hagar and his own son out to wander in the wilderness with some food and a skin of water. When the water in the skin was gone, Hagar put the boy under a bush and sat down a little distance apart from him. She turned the tragic situation over and over in her mind. "Do not let me look on the death of the child." And she began to sob.

So the celebration-the feast of joy and the laughter of a promise kept-moved toward an ominous portrait of the threat of a lonely death. Forsaken and isolated from the life she knew, the banished Hagar waited in the wilderness of Beersheba for the inevitable and tragic outcome.

But God hears in the wilderness. And the story takes us from the empty water skin and the threat of death to God's well of water and the promise of life.

"Lift up the boy up and hold him fast with your hand," said the angel of God, "for I will make a great nation of him." Then God opened Hagar's eyes, and she saw a well of water. She filled the skin with water and gave her son a drink. And the story says God was with the boy as he grew up.

Isn't that just like God? When all about us looks like wilderness and threat of death, God opens our eyes, and we see new life. Somehow, in the most barren of wildernesses, we suddenly see life where there was death. God hears in the wilderness.

But wait a minute! You and I know that all of life's stories do not have happy endings. Some of our stories end right there in the deathly wilderness, with not a sign of a life-giving wellspring or even a trickle of the water of new life.

"I cannot bear to watch this child die," Hagar lamented. She spoke aloud perhaps, knowing no one was near to hear. No one was present, not a single person nearby. So she sat in her wilderness and wept.

"Why troubles you, Hagar?" Mysteriously, the unannounced voice came from nowhere. Someone was there. Someone had heard her weeping.

Though never named in this story, the child crying under the bush was "Ishmael," which means "God hears." Because God heard in the wilderness, this story would not end in death.

The absent God was present in her misery. "Do not be afraid," the voice said to Hagar. "Open your eyes. I have heard the child, and I know the child's sufferings. Pick him up and comfort him. Open your eyes. There is water for him. See the well and give him a drink."

It has been said of Hagar that her wilderness cried of the presence and the absence of God. All of us live through life wilderesses that cry of the presence and absence of God. But God speaks out of the silence: "I hear! I hear the child crying. I hear the mother crying."

One afternoon on my hospital rounds in the birthing unit, I heard the sound of a woman crying. When I introduced myself as the chaplain and asked if I could help, she began to cry more intensely and told me what had happened: "I came in this morning for my final checkup. But when they did the ultrasound, they said my baby was dead. Chaplain, everything had been fine. The baby was doing fine. I thought I would take my new baby home tomorrow."

We talked for several minutes, trying to make some sense of all that had happened. Then the nurse arrived and began to prepare her for surgery where they would take the baby by Caesarean section. I promised to be there when Molly came out of surgery.

While she was in surgery, I spent some time with Molly's husband and the grieving grandparents. When the nurse had settled Molly back into her room after the surgery, I went in and waited for her to awaken completely. When she did, she felt the full weight of her loss. She began to cry hysterically and spoke words common to mothers who have experienced the grief of neonatal loss. "I feel so empty, so lonely. My arms literally ache to hold my baby."

Molly asked me to bless the baby. She gave me an embroidered blue gown for the baby and asked me to take it to the nurse. When I entered the room where the nurse was bathing the baby, she was crying. I gave her the tiny blue gown. Reluctantly, she took the gown from me and began to put it on the infant. Suddenly, the nurse gently laid the baby down and began to sob. "I can't do this," she said. "Will you please dress the baby and take him to his mother?"

She turned to leave the room. Then she looked back at me and said, "I'm sorry. This happened to me seven years ago."

As I dressed the tiny infant, I was overcome with the harsh reality that all of our stories do not have happy endings. For Molly, there was not a sign of new life in this tragic death. One hour she felt life stirring inside her. The next hour the stillness of death consumed every fiber of her being and every emotion within her. I wrapped the baby in a blanket and walked toward Molly's room. What would I say? What would I do? How would I place this tiny, lifeless body in Molly's arms? What words would I pray to God?

I walked in with the baby, and Molly immediately asked me how he looked. Her baby boy was perfectly and wondrously formed. "He's beautiful, Molly."

"He's beautiful?" she asked. And then sobbing loudly and uncontrollably, she shouted, "He's beautiful? Then why? Why is he dead? Why is my baby dead?"

I could not answer. I did not know the answers to any of the questions Molly asked me in the next seven hours. All I knew as a certainty of faith was that God does hear our cries in the wilderness, and God does speak to us with compassion: "I hear you crying. I know your emptiness and your mourning. Open your eyes and see the well of living water. See the promise of life that overcomes death. And remember, my child, I hear in the wilderness." Amen.

Compassionate God, I have wept in deep despair for my child. My arms ache with the grief of loss. I weep alone, and no one hears my laments. I feel empty, and the barrenness of my desert is so very real.

Often I feel discounted, God-ignored, isolated, alienated. I know the pain of feeling forsaken. What grievous sin have I committed to be banished to such a desert of loneliness?

Have I caused my own separation? Have I pushed away those I love? Am I a person of worth, or am I refuse thatmust be cast aside? Are you present in my wilderness, God? Do you hear my cries?

Comfort me, God, with the assurance that you do hear my weeping. Increase my faith so that I can sense your nearness and unconditional love. Help me to recognize all the ways I alienate myself from others and retreat into places of isolation.

In my fear and despair, God, I have shut you out of my life. I have closed my heart to love. I have steeled my soul to avoid invasion. I have hardened my spirit to avoid any possibility of pain. Help me, God, to allow your penetrating love to break through my shell of self protection. Help me to be open. Invade the deepest recesses of my being. Open my eyes, God, and make me see clearly. Make me see clearly that it is not death that is in my midst, it is life.

I wait for you, God. I wait for my soul to burst forth with springs of life-giving water. Amen.

Kathy Manis Findley is the author of "Voices of Our Sisters", published by Smyth & Helwys Publishing. To order, go to the online bookpage or call 1-800-747-3016.

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